You'll hear them long before you see them.
A pale full moon hangs languid over Ireland's west coast, and a cacophony of feral, undulating howls carries across the tide.
Under the shadow of the diving tower, bodies bob in the water, pale moonlight dancing across bare shoulders as they crest the water's surface. In unison, they tilt their head back and howl up at the ghostly sphere in the sky.
And then, with the burning of the frigid water almost unbearable, everyone scrambles out, shivering, triumphant. People envelop themselves in enormous fuzzy towels. Snacks are shared, and thermoses brimming with hot tea and hot chocolate are passed around (and maybe even the occasional flask of whiskey, if you keep your eyes peeled).
I couldn't tell you where the "Blackrock Howlers" got their start, but it's one of those peculiarities that feels at home in a city like Galway. You'll find them out there each month, even in the dead of winter, when that first full moon rises in the sky, and you'll certainly hear them. If you're visiting Galway, you can check out the Diving Tower's Facebook page, where you'll see any updates on upcoming group sea swims or "full moon parties".
The Blackrock diving tower offers more than a hub for the full moon parties. It's perhaps the quintessential, enduring image of Galway. It's been a staple of the city's coastline in one form or another for generations. The original structure dates back to the 19th century, and in our case, somewhat ironically, was first put in place by a "Mr. Moon." It was around that time when sea bathing became fashionable across Britain and Ireland. But what began as a Victorian leisure pursuit evolved into something far more embedded in local life.
The tower stands along Salthill Promenade, known simply as "the Prom" to locals, a sweeping mile-and-a-half or so stretch along scenic Galway Bay. Developed in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, as Salthill grew into a seaside resort, the Prom became the city's breathing space. A place for strolling, courting, thinking, and escaping.
Even today, it serves the same purpose.
On bright afternoons, families push prams along its wide pavement. Runners pass in a steady rhythm. Older couples sit on benches facing the Burren hills across the water. You'll hear the occasional busker crooning "Fisherman's Blues." On wilder days (and Galway gets many!) waves crash dramatically against the battered seawall, spewing salt spray high into the air as defiant walkers lean into the wind. There's even a small tradition here: kick the wall at the end of the Prom for good luck before turning back. It's done almost absentmindedly by locals, a superstition stitched into daily life. The prom imbues the very nature of Galway, in my eyes: quaint, but never boring, bustling but never overcrowded.
You can grab coffee ($5.50), pastries (~$4), and acai bowls ($12) from the Blackrock Cottage, or if you're in the mood for something more substantial, Black Cat Tapas is a must. Nestled inside a house built over 200 years ago, the menu is largely built on the abundance of fresh local seafood. You'll wanna order ~5/6 tapas per two people, and you'll be nicely satiated by the end. Personally, I'd highly recommend the monkfish tempura, pan-seared scallops, fried calamari, and sauteed baby potatoes (these four will set you back ~$65). Plus, the restaurant only occupies the bottom floor of the house. Upstairs, there's boutique accommodation you can book if you want to base yourself right in the heart of Salthill.
Mosey on beyond the prom towards the city, following the coast, and you'll happen upon a sombre, but tranquil little green space—the Celia Griffin Memorial Park. Perched overlooking the ocean, you'll happen upon three stone monuments and plaques which commemorate the Great Famine of the 1840s. This devastating period in Irish history saw more than a million people perish, and at least another million forced to depart Ireland's shores in search of a better life. Even today, Ireland still hasn't reached its pre-Famine population levels.
The center plaque is dedicated to Celia Griffin herself, who was a young girl who in 1847 walked 30 miles to Galway whilst suffering from starvation, hoping for some form of aid. She would not find it. The memorial features a large stone bearing a plaque in her honor, and on each side, stone sails bearing the names of "coffin ships" which embarked from Galway towards the US.
Standing there, with the Atlantic stretching westward toward America, it's impossible not to think about those departures. Families who once walked this very coastline before boarding ships bound for Boston, New York, Philadelphia. The vast majority likely never saw Ireland again. Countless Americans today can trace their heritage right back to this quiet little portion of coastline…
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